I suck in an audible breath as if an invisible fist just sucker punched me, while my daughter walks through the door to an open dance studio, holding Everly Sinclair’s hand. Everly Sinclair. My Cinderella. Holding Kerrigan’s hand. Kerrigan, who doesn’t like strangers. Who hates new people and places. Who I had to bribe to take ballet lessons with promises of a pink leotard and a stop at the bakery next door for cookies and whipped-cream-covered hot cocoa.
